Here is a photo in honor of my husband the Superdad.
This photo sums him up so well: one child strapped to his back, the boy’s bottle strapped to his hip, and the other child balanced on his knee as he gives him his midday feed. (All this while being in the great outdoors too.)
He is always doing a billion things for the boys and for me.
He does the night feeds, he does all the morning stuff with the boys, he makes dinner for us, he baths the boys, he looks after the washing… did I score big time or what? (By implication, I must be the world’s laziest wife, but let’s not go there.)
I love you, husband (Superhusband in my eyes).
Thanks for being you.
You know when you have a deadline that’s so humungous and ginormous that you have to start using adjectives that aren’t even actually words?
I have one of those right now. I’m so intimated by how big it is that I don’t seem able to start. I’m sitting here staring at 280 A4 pages of text (kindly printed out by the client) that has to converted into a hot looking coffee table book. Somehow. Miraculously. And speedily. In less than a week’s time, to be exact.
I’ve walked around the house a couple of times already. Turned off the TV. Put the kettle on. Everything’s tidy. I could try mowing the lawn, but I’m not sure where we keep the grass cutting machine… thingy. Angus is at my mum’s and even Pete’s sleeping peacefully.
So I really should start.
Except that my nose is pouring like a tap. And I just want to climb back into bed. The only thing stopping me is that Rick made it very nicely this morning and I don’t want to crinkle the sheets. I could just lie down here on the studio floor, but it doesn’t look very comfy. Plus, I would see all the cables underneath the desk and I’m sure that can’t be good for my sanity.
Like I said, I really should just start.
Before I go, I leave you with the behind-the-scenes story that Mia Freedman wrote about her interview with Julia Gillard which I read last night close to midnight, when I should have been in bed asleep. I think Mia is a great writer and journalist. And she has an important lesson to share: always carry a pen.
On Friday I was speaking to a friend of mine from college and she mentioned how she actually likes to read my blog, and, hello, why have there been no updates? So this post is in honour of her.
Yes, I have been a bit slack with my blogging. What else is new? (At least my ability to use cliches hasn’t slackened off.) But this time, I have a very good reason. More about that in some other post.
So I turned
twenty thirty (freudian slip there) about a month ago. And tomorrow is my parents’ 31st wedding anniversary. Which means they had about four months of blissful married life before realising they were pregnant with me. Which suddenly makes me wonder – am I an accident!? The thought disturbs, intrigues and amuses me all at once. I wonder if I should ask them? Something like that needs to go into my future best-selling memoir, surely.
When I think of my parents and my childhood, it is often tinged with some angst and frustration. I am quick to remember how they always disapproved, how much pressure they put on me to do well at school, how they used to eavesdrop on my phone conversations, how they never listened to me, how they failed to say anything positive, etc.
Conveniently, I often forget how I would lie to them about where I was going, how I always answered back, how I never really listened to them, how I used to eavesdrop on their conversations, how I was always sulky and grumpy, how I never really said anything positive to them either, etc.
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